


providence

by Loreley



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Drunk flirting, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, and hella (former) third-year friendships, background daisuga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 18:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9285095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loreley/pseuds/Loreley
Summary: Nishinoya wins a championship match, celebrates with his beloved teammates of past and present, and flirts with a beautiful person at a bar.(It's by some stroke of good luck that said beautiful person is also his fiancé.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. I don't write fluff. I don't. But dancing-queen-young-and-sweet-2017 means new year new me, so I keep writing fluff...!
> 
> There's an imagine your OTP post floating around tumblr that goes something like this: "My dad keeps drunkenly flirting with my mom. They've been married for 30 years." I think of this often, and then asanoya happened.
> 
> (It is a resolution of mine to write more asanoya! This pair deserves all the love in the world!)
> 
> I want to practice writing them effectively to capture their dynamic, so I promise to keep working hard and become a better writer! They're such great fun. What a joy to write!
> 
> Written for fear-the-altos, because I wanted to give her a happy surprise for her first day of classes! Mine have not started yet. I may need some asanoyas to get through, too...

“And in this one… she’s wearing her new collar, you see, which is very good.”

“Very good, y-yes.”

“Very good indeed. And here she is with Suga… _Asahi_.”

Asahi stiffens with the shock of an electric current shooting through his body. A lethal dose, straight through the heart, and indeed he is _certain_ it ceases beating.

Daichi fixes him in a steely glare, the sort that had imbued him with the power of some malevolent divinity in the eyes of the first-years, back in his heyday as captain. Asahi makes a mental note to pray for good luck on the behalf of the hapless middle schoolers he now coaches part-time. At least Asahi had the fortune to grow up with Daichi, to have such comforting images of a young snot-nosed Daichi making an utter fool of himself any time prior to age fourteen to juxtapose with the terrifying force of authority he became when they entered high school—not that these ever amounted to anything when Daichi decided that he _wanted_ to be terrifying. The dim bar lighting throws Daichi’s face into sharp relief, an effect of nearly sufficient drama to distract from the color raging high in his cheeks. This is of little comfort to Asahi, who was once afraid of being humiliated in front of his underclassmen, and is now afraid of being stabbed and dumped in a dirty alley somewhere.

But the bar is filled with the raucous cheer of celebration, a vitality unique to athletes on a winner’s high, so surely there are too many witnesses to get away with such a crime. Besides, what Daichi extends across the table is not a weapon, but a phone. Asahi gingerly takes it in his hands.

The new Sawamura family dog is exactly what one would expect: an overlarge, ostensibly _gorgeous_ border collie, probably loved within an inch of its life. In this particular photo, an almost horrifically domestic-looking Suga in a black sweater has his arms wrapped tight around the dog, creating the curious illusion of an indeterminate distinction between himself and their pet. With the dog’s pink tongue lolling and Suga’s blinding smile, Asahi would be hard-pressed to determine which one is happier. He smiles absentmindedly. He’s always wanted a dog. His apartment is simply too small right now, and dogs of appropriate apartment size make him nervous.

“Is that not,” Daichi continues seriously, gesturing to the phone, “the most heavenly photo you have ever seen in your life?”

_Where is Nishinoya?_ Asahi thinks desperately.

It _is_ a cute photo, but not quite the most heavenly thing Asahi has ever seen pictured—being in a long-distance relationship for a time after high school graduation means he has acquired a fair number of photos, and he likes those more. Likes them quite a _bit_. Once he had developed the ability to take screenshots on snapchat without his hands shaking too much, he had made himself a veritable menace.

A more sober Daichi may have asked after the train of thought that so swept Asahi away from him and his ludicrously adorable family, but Daichi in his current state is all too happy to return to scrolling through photos on his phone. He selects a few more dog shots to share, which Asahi appreciates, and some of their new flat, which Asahi is privately jealous of, and then a couple of Suga sleeping, presented without comment, which sober Daichi probably would have surely _murdered_ Asahi for laying his unworthy eyes on.

Asahi looks around, his fingers gathering unconscious fistfuls of his dress pants. He _really_ wants to find Nishinoya.

The two of them had been abandoned by their dates for the evening relatively early on, Daichi having come from some terribly important work-related event that involved his pressingly friendly coworkers putting a few glasses in his hands already. The effects of this became startlingly apparent as soon as the phone came out, and with it, the dog pictures. Asahi had already made himself comfortable at a table with only the company of a cola bottle, naming himself designated driver for someone he _knew_ would have no self-control. Suga, grateful for the responsible presence, had dropped Daichi off and mumbled something about going to find Kageyama. _Speaking of no self-control,_ Asahi muses, thinking he can hear Hinata shouting that name from somewhere off to his right.

He doesn’t mind. They have a right to let loose—they _won_ , after all.

It hadn’t been wholly unexpected, nor had it been particularly thrilling a finish, but it _was_ the Premier League Championships, and just about everyone from their high school team had come to watch, whether directly related to anyone on the league team or otherwise. Nishinoya was unapologetic in his smack-talk when Asahi called him the night before, but the last things he said before he hung up were, “I don’t want to lose,” and “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

(The last thing Asahi had said was, “You won’t lose.”)

Kageyama had struck the final blow, but by that point in the game it had not been a matter of _who_ would win, but _how_. Still, there had been nothing in Asahi’s recollection that matched the overpowering _roar_ in the stadium when Kageyama had done, of all things, a setter dump—there was a moment of stunned silence and Asahi could _hear_ the moment the ball touched the ground, and then he was up on his feet, Hinata was latched on to his right arm with a vice grip _did you see that did you see that did you SEE!?_ and of course he saw, of _course_ , he couldn’t look away once.

Fans of both sides cried out to swallow the sound, the swell, the _victory_ and Asahi was right there with them. He had entered the stands knowing who would win the game. He had watched Nishinoya take his place on the court, silent and calculating, _daring_ his opponent to make a single move out of line, and wondered if he shared that knowledge.

The immaculate reunion of the nigh-legendary Karasuno team was to go out for drinks regardless of the league game’s outcome, but upon being swept from the stadium, no one thought of a single thing besides _we’ve won._ Once they were outside and Asahi was halfway through an offer to take Hinata to get a change of clothes before heading to the bar, Hinata burst into tears. Then Asahi had held his hands and cried, too.

Asahi had met up with Nishinoya at the bar, where Nishinoya had gone straightaway with the rest of the team after being freed from the formalities of winning. He was wide-eyed and a little flushed—from alcohol or victory both, Asahi couldn’t possibly be certain—and already talking at full volume. During the course of his greeting, (“ _Asahi!_ Hey babe! Did you see that crazy setter dump? Did you see the last receive I made, the one that went right to Bokuto? Wasn’t that the _coolest_ thing?”) he extricated himself from the nucleic center of a frightening throng of euphoric teammates, crossed the length of the bar, and successfully wrapped every one of his limbs around Asahi. Satisfied with the lack of distance _and_ destruction of their effective height difference, Nishinoya, with his nose to Asahi’s and a self-satisfied grin painted broad on his face, whisper-shouted, “We _won_.”

_Of course you did_ , Asahi had thought, and then Nishinoya was gone, the wind of a concentrated storm wrapped up in a jersey colored like flames.

He had not seen Nishinoya since. The absence fits comfortably in a slip of worry somewhere in the back of Asahi’s mind, like the refrain of a beloved melody. Now is the time for Nishinoya to celebrate with his teammates—Asahi is the only one with the remarkable fortune to bring Nishinoya home at the evening’s close. To experience that enthusiasm, that _thrill_ up close, to see Nishinoya scorch the walls of their precious shared existence with his very presence, to let him burn Asahi alive with it—well, that’s simply love, isn’t it? So Asahi does not mind waiting.

Well, he does not mind waiting, but he does mind being unaware of Nishinoya for too long a time. Letting him slip out of sight, especially in this mood, has dangerous potential.

(He doesn’t worry as much as he once did, he considers, and he absently laces his fingers together, twisting the warm weight on one of them in a nervous habit he is happy to develop. With certain assurances in place, he has less to worry about.)

“Did we ever stay out this late?” Daichi asks, and Asahi startles again. “I mean, when we used to go out. Before we became responsible adults.”

Asahi smiles tentatively. _We only started going out once we were responsible adults_ , he thinks. “Are you feeling alright?” he asks instead.

Daichi squints at him. “I think I’m getting too old for this,” he decides, and then slowly, slowly lowers his head to the table.

_He’s down_ , Asahi texts Suga.

_I’ll get him, thank you!_ _ヾ(´_ _▽｀;)_ _ゝ_ Suga replies.

It doesn’t take Suga long to emerge as a vision from the ether and collect his husband, a rather involved and laborious process despite Daichi’s ostensible willingness to take part in his own removal. There’s something dark stuck to the sleeve of Suga’s sweater that Asahi is now qualified to identify as dog hair, which makes him smile.

“I saw your other half with Bokuto and Akaashi by the bar,” Suga helpfully supplies as he helps a grumbling Daichi into his jacket, “I told him you were over here, so I’m sure he’ll stop by.”

“Probably when he’s ready to leave,” Asahi says good-naturedly, but the prospect admittedly makes him a little excited. “I’m fine here,” he adds, because Suga’s brows were beginning to knit together and that means _only_ trouble.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Suga laughs, “I told him there was a cute guy waiting for him over here.”

“Suga!”

“I thought it might expedite the process,” Suga waves him off. “Now, let’s get you home,” he says to Daichi, who nods vaguely.

“Your dog is very cute, by the way, congratulations,” Asahi says quickly, because he feels as if he should.

Suga blinks, surprised, and then glances to Daichi. Apparently putting two and two together, he laughs again. “Thanks. _Someone’s_ a little in love. Call if you need anything, okay? And have a good night.”

Asahi is thankful to have friends like Daichi and Suga, who make marriage look a bit less scary than Asahi has always thought it to be. Whatever it is they do, it seems to be working for them—be it the strong foundation of their friendship, the presence of the found family they keep gathered around them, or the advent of the dog. Asahi twists the ring on his finger, all happy nervous tension.

_Once I retire from the league, let’s move way out in the country,_ Nishinoya had said, with every ounce of his characteristic enthusiasm fully intact, _let’s be a cool married couple and be really happy and get a dog._

_It won’t be long,_ Nishinoya had added then, as if reading Asahi’s anxious concerns before he even had a chance to voice them, _because I can’t wait, okay?_

_I can’t wait either,_ Asahi thinks.

True to Suga’s words, he does not remain alone long. Nishinoya melts out of the growing crowd, alternating familiar and unfamiliar faces reduced to shadows in the patterns of people by the irreverent hand of poor lighting. Every bit of him that causes him to stand out—the avian focus of eyes, the sharp cut of his smile, the inky-black lines of his piercings and bleach streak in his hair he could never be talked into parting with—is so welcome a sight that Asahi thanks providence that he is sitting down, or else his bones very well may have betrayed him and reduced him to a puddle of lovesick jelly on the grimy bar floor.

Nishinoya has a bubbling glass in one hand and a cola bottle in the other, the latter of which he slides across the table to meet with Asahi’s emptied one by way of greeting. He is silent, the strange clone of the victory-sick volleyball player Asahi had seen earlier; rather, he is the Nishinoya that prowls silent and lethal onto the court, a promise of the devastating performance to come that may only be cheapened by words. To have this Nishinoya arrive as if caught in gravity, as if it is fate or something comparably inescapable that draws him to Asahi, makes his heart skitter frantic in place. _He probably wants to go home soon,_ Asahi thinks with something like relief. _Everything’s fine._

And then Nishinoya slides into the seat across the table from Asahi, smooth with the grace of one who has spent years gaining perfect control over their body, like he intends for this to be put on display. A smile curls his lip and he says, “Hey. Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

_Oh._ Asahi thinks. _Everything is_ not _fine_.

“Seriously,” Nishinoya continues without breaking stride, throwing back a hearty drink. “Has anyone ever told you that you bear a _striking_ resemblance to our lord and savior? And I mean _striking_ ,” he adds, letting his gaze trail unabashedly down from Asahi’s face. The red-hot scrutiny makes him shiver.

_Only every morning the moment you wake up,_ Asahi frowns. But he says instead, “I’ve heard that one before.” _Mostly from you_.

Nishinoya nods thoughtfully. “Makes sense. You are pretty divine.” He gestures to the bottle he had brought with him, sitting yet untouched and collecting condensation. “That’s for you, by the way. Free of charge.”

“Th-thanks,” Asahi stammers.

Nishinoya raises an eyebrow and delivers the most devastating of his lopsided smiles. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

To this point, Asahi has entertained two possibilities. The first is that Nishinoya is acting the flirt in some invented scenario, looking for a little fun on his special night, and expecting Asahi to somehow find in himself sufficient acting ability to play along. They aren’t even married yet and hardly bored of one another, but Nishinoya always makes the effort to keep things _fun_. Asahi appreciates it, he simply isn’t very good at reciprocating. Up until he actually takes a close look at Nishinoya in his current state, he supposes this scenario to be the most likely possibility. But, given that Nishinoya has yet to drop the charade…?

The second possibility remains as the truth: that Nishinoya is drunkenly hitting on him, and has _no concept of what he is doing_.

Asahi draws a long sigh through his nose. _This is the person I love,_ he thinks. _This is the person I’m going to marry._

“Thanks,” Asahi mumbles lowly, rapidly running through possible solutions in his head at a manic pace and coming up with _nothing_ when he realizes that he went to pick up the bottle with his left hand.

Nishinoya’s eyes zero in on his ring finger as if by magnetism. “Oh,” he gasps, nearly choking on his drink. “Oh—my god. Woah. I’m sorry, I really fucked up—“

Asahi nearly drops his own drink from surprise. “Wha—”

“You’re married,” Nishinoya says, _way_ too loudly, even in consideration of their location. “I—I mean, of course you are, you’re crazy hot, I didn’t mean—wow. Sorry. Keep the drink, that’s on me anyways. You’re _married_.”

“Engaged,” Asahi says quickly, reeling, and then thinks wildly, _why did you correct him on_ that _part?_ “I-I mean, we’re engaged!”

Nishinoya’s eyes narrow to deadly slits. He inclines his head slightly. “We?” he asks, and his tone begs, _am I being played?_

“Yes!” Asahi nods desperately. He’s horribly aware of the heat radiating from his face, and he shoves his hands under the table before he can think about how sweaty his palms are. “Yuu, we aren’t married yet. You proposed months ago! _Are you okay?”_

Nishinoya blinks emptily. The more Asahi talks, the farther his jaw drops, in the manner of a preposterous simple machine.

“I think,” Nishinoya says finally, swallows thickly, and then continues, “I’m doing better than okay. Apparently.” He carefully sets down his glass and takes a breath. “Are we really…” his voice drops to a whisper, “…engaged?”

Asahi, concerned and stupefied in equal measure, merely nods.

“Wow,” Nishinoya breathes. He looks up at Asahi again, his expression luminous. “My team won today, you know?”

And then his head hits the table. Asahi buries his face in his hands.

The next morning, Nishinoya sleeps through sunrise. He sleeps through Asahi’s alarm, through the bustle of Asahi preparing breakfast for the two of them, through Asahi sighing and _reheating_ his breakfast, and through an impressive portion of the afternoon. When he does awaken, it is with a whimper rather than his usual _bang_ , with a thin crack of red-rimmed eyes and the smallest of resigned sighs. Asahi ensures he is nearby for the duration of the afternoon, just in case the fantasy of the previous night reasserts itself, and is settled on top of the covers with a book when Nishinoya returns to the world of the living. The warm press of fingers to his shoulder alerts him to his bedmate’s state, and he turns to find Nishinoya reaching out to him from under a messily-assembled heap of blankets, hyperextending his arm as if Asahi is a volleyball falling just inside his side of the court.

“Good morning,” Asahi chuckles. “How do you feel?”

“Awful,” Nishinoya croaks, letting his arm fall flat, only to quickly reconsider and draw it back under the warmth of the covers. “Did you… bring me home?”

“Of course.” Asahi places his book on the bedside table, beside Nishinoya’s breakfast, which by now has grown cold. “Here, let me warm this up for you. Eating will make you feel better.”

Nishinoya nods vaguely and turns onto his back. He watches Asahi as he circles about the room, collecting the dishes and carrying them out, hyper-vigilant even through the haze of a hangover. When Asahi returns, Nishinoya appears to have gathered the strength to keep his eyes open all the way, as well as achieved the next stage of coherence. “I got super drunk last night, didn’t I?” he asks.

“You did,” Asahi says, placing the steaming tray carefully over the area of the blanket lump that he guesses is Nishinoya’s lap. Nishinoya gasps and wriggles himself upright. As he halfheartedly deflects Nishinoya’s drowsy, if earnest storm of grateful kisses, he adds, “You didn’t remember who I was.”

Nishinoya freezes, his lips pressed to Asahi’s cheekbone. “I… didn’t?”

“Yeah. You were… drunkenly hitting on me, actually.” Asahi feels himself blush at the mere mention.

“What?” Nishinoya pulls away, incredulous. “No way! I definitely knew who you were. I couldn’t have been _that_ drunk.”

“Do you remember talking to me last night at the bar?” Asahi asks flatly.

“After you first came in? Uh…” Nishinoya trails off and grimaces. “Wow, I guess I was pretty drunk.” He doesn’t sound terribly troubled by this revelation, however. He looks up at Asahi, curious. “I was hitting on you, though?”

“Um, y-yeah.”

“Eh. Drunk me has good taste,” Nishinoya shrugs, unconcerned, and picks up his chopsticks to dig in to his breakfast.

Asahi watches him for a moment or two, but Nishinoya appears entirely content despite his apparent raging hangover _and_ divulgences of embarrassing behavior the night prior. Nevertheless, Asahi finds himself smiling absently, and rises to attend to the chores he had neglected for the better part of the day.

“Hey, Asahi.”

Asahi turns around in the doorway and finds that sharp-eyed look of Nishinoya’s trained squarely on him, bright in the dim of the bedroom. Even like this, small as he appears in the mountains of blankets all around him, with a few errant grains of rice stuck to his cheeks, Nishinoya is an arresting figure. Once again Asahi thinks himself fortunate—for this, for the past and present Nishinoya, and for the future locked in the ring on his finger. Wherever did such blind luck come from? Nishinoya reaches toward him again, deliberate this time, with every intention Asahi has ever seen him use in a match wrapped into one moment, like Asahi is something he wishes to _save_.

Of course, he crosses the room without a second thought and takes Nishinoya’s offered hand. Their matching rings click together, and it’s so perfect that it’s nearly _laughable_ and how is Nishinoya such a _natural_ like this? If he could capture this _feeling_ in a picture, then Asahi would be the one passing his phone around at the bar. _Look what I have, see? You can’t look away once, can you?_

“Guess what?” Nishinoya asks, laughing, probably at the vapidly happy look on Asahi’s face. He can’t help it, doesn’t _want_ to help it, not when Nishinoya’s pulling his hand close and kissing his ring with his smiling mouth.

“I won,” Nishinoya says, and for once, Asahi knows he isn’t talking about volleyball.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fuchsiamelody on tumblr and my sports anime sideblog is tendou-satorii, which is at least 90% haikyuu. Please drop on by, and let's talk about volleyball idiots!


End file.
